Learning to Jump Again: A Memoir of Grief and Hope

By Anthony Weber

As a pastor and teacher, Anthony Weber tried to help people deal with the grief that accompanied the death of a loved one. In 2003, he experienced that loss for himself when his father, a minister and counselor, died of pancreatic cancer while still in his fifties. Suddenly, Anthonys personal experience challenged his carefully crafted theological understanding of pain and grief.

Anthony had to revisit a lot of big questions that he thought were resolved: Why is life so hard? What kind of God allows this, and why? Why do I feel so disconnected from others? How do I handle the roller coaster of emotions? Why am I now consumed by fear? How should I view the presence of pain in the world? How do I, as a pastor, teach my congregation how to pray when I can't pray anymore? Can I doubt? How long can I cry? And how long will God put up with me?

Learning to Jump Again allows us to grieve at the ripple effect of death, grief, and lossbut not without hope.

"I read Learning to Jump Again straight throughexcept for the times I had to stop and wipe away the tears. Refreshingly honest, Anthony's insightful and winsome writing style helped me process some of the emotions of my own father's death twelve years ago. I hope this fine book finds its way into the hands and hearts of millions dealing with death and the grief that accompanies it.
Nick Twomey, Founding/Lead Pastor, Bay Pointe Community Church, Traverse City, Michigan

An unusually candid account of a man of faith wrestling with God through the death of his father. Anthony Weber brilliantly articulates the raw realities of being enshrouded with grief and the struggle to get beyond.
Jacquelyn Kaschel, Mlitt, PNH1, CEIP-MH

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449721299

Anthony Weber

Anthony Weber is a pastor, teacher, coach, husband, and father of three boys. He holds degrees in English education and theology, and currently lives in Traverse City, Michigan. In his spare time, he promotes good athletic programs by prominently displaying Ohio State’s logo wherever he can.

Book preview

Learning to

Jump

Again

A Memoir of Grief and Hope

Anthony Weber

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Copyright © 2011 Anthony Weber

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-2130-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2131-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2129-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011912198

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/07/2011

Contents

THE SITUATION

THE ESCALATION

THE FUNERAL

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR ONE

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR TWO

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR THREE

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR FOUR

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR FIVE

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR SIX

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR SEVEN

THE AFTERMATH: YEAR EIGHT

THE AFTERMATH: TODAY

MOVING BEYOND THE MEMORIES

Confronting Life Honestly

Emotions

Dreams

Memory

Faith

Community

Pain and Hardship

God

Prayer

Embracing Life

FROM HEART TO HEAD

The Intellectual Side of Pain

The Problem of Evil: A Glossary of Terms

The Problem of Pain

Paul and the Problem of Pain

"FAITH MUST BE TESTED. IF IT IS UNBROKEN, THEN IT IS NOT WHOLE … BUT IT MUST NOT REMAIN SEVERED OR SUNDERED. WE MUST PRESS ON, FACING UP TO WHAT HAPPENED IN THE PAST AND WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THE WORLD TODAY.

— ELIE WIESEL

To my father, Leon Weber, and to all of us who long to see our fathers again.

My dad died at age fifty-seven after battling pancreatic cancer for two and a half years.

In a world increasingly full of absentee fathers and men stuck in suspended adolescence, my grandpa raised a son who was neither of those. Leon Weber was a good man and a good father, and I loved him.

After he died, I started a journal. Though originally I used it as an intensely private outlet for the emotional upheaval that followed my father’s burial, I decided to share my journey with others instead of staying withdrawn. When I posted a number of entries on Facebook, the unexpected responses overwhelmed me.

Friends and strangers poured out raw, primal thoughts and emotions that they had never expressed freely before. I realized then that this journal could be helpful in at least starting people on a path toward freedom and healing.

This is my journey through the valleys and the shadows; it is from my perspective only. It is not a standard for others; it is not a document that reveals my better moments. I am not proud of everything I felt (and still feel, for that matter), but if this journal is helpful, I’m okay with showing a side of my nature that I was once more comfortable keeping hidden.

I would like to provide connection and commiseration for all of us who grieve, but I don’t want it to finish there. To that end, I have included some chapters with more objective insights (personal and biblical) to balance the raw emotiveness of the journal. In addition, there are several essays at the end that delve more deeply into the philosophical and theological problem of pain in the world.

There are no isolated stories.

May we find comfort together.

FRODO: I WISH THE RING HAD NEVER COME TO ME. I WISH NONE OF THIS HAD HAPPENED.

GANDALF: SO DO ALL WHO LIVE TO SEE SUCH TIMES. BUT THAT IS NOT FOR THEM TO DECIDE. ALL WE HAVE TO DECIDE IS WHAT TO DO WITH THE TIME THAT IS GIVEN TO US.

—J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

The Journal

THE SITUATION

SITUATION: A COMPLEX OR CRITICAL CONDITION OR POSITION IN WHICH YOU FIND YOURSELF.

We didn’t make the world. All we have to do is live in it.

—Stephen R. Donaldson

Fall 2000

When my dad drove from Columbus to my house in Traverse City in October, he was yellow, a deep-to-the-depth-of-his-soul color that made the entire world seem sick.

I knew even then the truth was more than he and my mom stoically claimed. Time trickled away as the doctor misdiagnosed the cause of his jaundice. He drank some bad imported tea, the doctor said. But my parents didn’t buy it. The grass was meant to be green; the sky was meant to be blue; my house was meant to be whatever color I had inappropriately painted it at that time. My dad was not meant to be yellow. A breech in nature, said Macbeth, speaking of the rightful king’s mortal wounds. I could not force myself to look at him directly for much of that weekend, even though they visited for three days. I wish I had been strong enough to watch, but I looked away even as the colors of nature conspired to betray my father. My dad, mom, and sister had come for the color tour in Michigan, and that made sense. In the fall, leaves turn yellow, and this change is part of the cycle of life, both beautiful and good. When we all returned from our scenic drive, Dad stood with me on my back deck, but I could not look at him. Now, because of the fall, it was my dad who turned yellow; it was part of the cycle of death; and it was awful and cruel.

A friend stopped by that weekend to borrow some tools, and I stammered through an explanation of why my visiting father was yellow. My friend looked at me gently but said nothing. His son had been killed in a traffic accident not so long before. He knew that after the fall comes winter, and after the chill comes the cold, and he was mercifully silent.

When the jaundice diagnosis morphed into a cancer diagnosis, many people thought God had to heal him. For various reasons, God couldn’t let him die; God needed him here on earth; God had given them a magical wand, a verse that they could wave over his yellow skin. Dozens of people called my parents to assure them that God has given me a Word. The verse, You shall have none of these diseases, magically left its Hebraic, post-Egyptian context and landed just a bit off Broad Street. It was a typical verse-bite, full of nothing but happy thoughts. Two thumbs up for the power of positive thinking. Nobody called with, The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be His name. Job had apparently been banished from the canon of promises. In fact, a friend (one of Job’s twenty-first-century friends, perhaps?) has since explained to me how God’s rebuttal at the end of the book rebuked Job for that pithy statement. Just pray and trust God. That sentence I heard more times than I care to recount. But the universe does not operate by the secret; even if it did, I am not the secret keeper. I am not God’s master. He is not a tame lion, said C. S. Lewis, and none of us are lion tamers anyway.

As the prognosis grew even grimmer, the news that God did not share the perspective of the verse-biters seemed to surprise people. It’s still nothing to worry about. Your dad is confident it will be okay. Of course he was. He had to be, and I don’t blame him. Those closest to him had to be positive, and it was good and right that they were. If the skin and the soul are connected, then positive thoughts sometimes equal positive results.

I, on the other hand, did not live near him. I did not have to be outwardly or inwardly confident, and I was neither. Those who lived with and near him had to bear that burden. It’s no use to worry, I told myself, as if that would help. But who was I kidding? The source of my life had changed his color, like a chameleon. When he rested on a vibrant tree of life, he blended in and looked alive; now that he perched on a shriveled, dying tree, blending in once again, what was I to conclude? He was shedding his skin and turning into something different. Before, he was neither yellow, nor gaunt, nor full of cancer, and he was alive. Now the first three had changed; what to do with the fourth? Were there really that many other options? The corruptible must be shed before we can put on the incorruptible. There is no other way. I felt like I was the only one praying, Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. Did anyone else remember that Jesus said, My God, why have you forsaken me? Was it true that if I mustered enough faith and prayed hard enough, God would have to heal my father? We needed only a mustard seed’s worth of faith. Apparently, none of us possessed even that much.

Be true, Unbeliever.

—Stephen R. Donaldson

There is an insecurity that comes with sickness, especially an illness that can’t be seen or predicted. When I hurt my knees playing basketball, the doctor diagnosed my injury, fixed my joints, and then gave me a timetable for healing: In six months you will be pain-free. And enjoy the Darvocet.

Cancer is a little more vague. I know someone with bladder cancer. This cancer has a pretty clear diagnosis; a fairly successful fix is possible, perhaps even probable, even if it’s no fun. The timetable and quality of life, however, remain unclear. He will likely stop peeing blood, but will he be able to work? To enjoy his family? To be pain-free?

With pancreatic cancer, the insecurity comes before the diagnosis—Why is he yellow? My family and I spent an hour talking with the surgeon one afternoon, and while we all tried to be optimistic, we learned something that day. The only thing up in the air after this diagnosis was whether Dad had six months or five years to live. The only uncertainty lay in the timing. Barring an act of God, Dad would die.

*For more on Confronting Life Honestly, see page 84.

THE ESCALATION

ESCALATION: AN INCREASE IN EXTENT OR INTENSITY.

Better hold on tight; here comes the night.

—Little Big Town

November 3, 2000

Before the doctors could treat the cancer in Dad’s pancreas, they had to tackle the jaundice, so they inserted a shunt to drain the bile.

Must I remember? My dad, once a strapping farm boy, who weighed more than three hundred pounds at his peak, was lying in a bed in a hospital in Columbus, Ohio, hooked up to tubes moving fluids that weren’t supposed to be there from places I didn’t want to know about. When he got up to use the bathroom, his robe parted in the back. (Why can’t hospitals provide at least a measure of modesty to go with their two-dollar robes?) Instead of a strapping farm boy surging out of bed to conquer cancer, a pale, weak, tottering man gave up his dignity just to make it to the bathroom.

I knew then that I was to become the man of the family. I didn’t desire that role. I was only thirty-one. I was supposed to have a little more time to mature properly. My boys needed a grandpa until their dad was ready; my wife needed me to hear Dad’s advice; I needed to know him more so I could better know myself.

There, finally, I understood clearly: cancer had leveled a worthy father and elevated an